


Christmas Morning

by lucian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bloodplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucian/pseuds/lucian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best Christmas presents don't fit under the tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Morning

  
**Title:** Christmas Morning  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word count:** 1,007  
 **Warning(s):** dark!fic, bloodplay, implied torture, other character death.  
 **Prompt:** Wild Card #1. (Pick your own.)  
 **Summary:** The best Christmas presents don't fit under the tree.

It's nearly noon on Christmas morning, and Harry is lounging across the sofa in his pajamas, his bare toes digging in between the cushions as he joyfully opens yet another sweet.

There is a pile of wrapping paper on the ground beneath him; even after fifteen years of real Christmases, Harry still drags Severus out of bed at the crack of dawn, races down the stairs, and tears into his presents as though though they will disappear if he doesn't.

Severus would bother to be angry with the Dursleys if he hadn't taken care of them years ago.

They have developed a ritual: after Harry has finally finished yelping and laughing and kissing Severus for every gift, no matter how small a trinket, he shyly hands Severus the first brightly-wrapped bundle, sits on his hands, and bites his lower lip with nervousness.

Severus opens his own gifts carefully: he slides a long nail underneath the haphazard tape and unfolds the bright paper slowly while Harry bounces with nervous excitement. His curiosity about what the gaudily-wrapped boxes contain is always eclipsed by the brilliant beauty of Harry's childlike enthusiasm, and he wants to draw it out as long as he can: he wants every single Christmas to make up for all of those that Harry spent in a cupboard and he always spends far more money than he should in the attempt.

"I have one more present for you," Severus murmurs after Harry has finally emptied his stocking and finished licking melted chocolate off of his fingers.

Harry hangs his head over the edge of the couch. "But there's nothing left under the tree," he says.

Severus smirks. "Your unparalleled powers of observations have correctly deduced that it is not, in fact, under the tree."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Well, where else would it be if it isn't under the tree?"

Severus crosses his ankles, folds his hands loosely in his lap, takes a long, slow breath, and gives Harry a feral smile. "If I was to hazard a guess, I would say it was in the dungeon."

At this, Harry stops breathing. The color drains from his face and his fingers dig into the couch cushions. "In the dungeon?" he asks, and his voice is barely a whisper.

"Yes, Harry," he murmurs, and his heart is burning fast and hot like petrol-soaked rags. "In the dungeon. Alone and scared and screaming."

Harry's pupils dilate and his knuckles turn white. "Severus," he says, and his voice is hardly more than breathing. "Please, Severus - tell me it is what I think it is..."

"Do you want to see?" Severus asks when Harry can't seem to form any more words, and Harry's breath is short and fast as he nods.

The curling stone staircase has never seemed as long or as short as it does as he watches Harry descend in front of him: he is trembling and slow, and he looks back every few steps with desperate, wide eyes. As with all things, it seems, it is Harry's reactions that make a beautiful thing rapturous.

The dungeons are dark, except for a pool of light against the far wall. There is a naked man in the center of it: he is collared, and the chain attached to it keeps him kneeling. His wrists are shackled in front of him, and his hair hangs in limp, blond strings. He is whimpering and crying; his words are unintelligible.

Harry stops cold. It takes several tries before he can form the words: "Is that Draco? Is it finally him?"

Severus knows that Harry doesn't need to ask - he knows his tormentor by sight, by sound, by smell - but if Harry has learned anything during his years as the Dursley's whipping boy and the unwilling Saviour of the ungrateful Wizarding World, it is that dreams do not come true. Not ever.

"Yes," Severus murmurs into Harry's ear, and his lips nearly burn: Harry is as hot as a furnace.

Harry turns, and his eyes are fever-bright. "For me?" he asks breathlessly, needlessly, and Severus runs his fingers over Harry's trembling lips before pulling him close for a brutal, desperate kiss.

"Wait. I need - " Harry starts, his voice low, but Severus knows what he needs. He pulls a leather-wrapped bundle out of his robes: it's Harry's kill-kit, and Harry takes it reverently, his eyes as dark as endless night.

Harry turns, and Severus ceases to exist: it is just Harry and the ball of broken fear that was once Draco Malfoy. Harry kneels before him and unrolls the leather lovingly: the knives seem to glitter happily, and Draco starts to keen.

Harry is precise and brutal with his blades. When Draco begs, Harry laughs. When Draco offers him the world, Harry turns it down. When Draco shrieks for his mummy, Harry's whispered words echo across the damp stones: "At least you _had_ a mother."

It is hours later when Draco finally stops moving, stops screaming, stops breathing, and Harry is soaked in blood. His trembling has stopped. He rises from the black-wet stones where his knives shine red and reaches a slick hand out to Severus.

His eyes are wide and wild as Severus pushes him up against the wall beside Draco's corpse: he tightens his hand in Harry's blood-wet hair and draws his tongue along the iron-sweetness dripping down Harry's throat. The taste is rich and heady and blindingly intoxicating.

Harry makes a sound somewhere between mad laughter and a wanton cry, and Severus sucks the sound out of his hot mouth. Harry is hard beneath his blood-soaked pajamas, and Severus presses his answering hardness against it.

They fuck against the wall, blood making their bodies slick and hot and perfect and it's far faster that Severus wants it to be, but the hours of Draco screaming and bleeding has been foreplay enough for both of them. Harry shrieks as he comes between their blood-slick bodies, and Severus presses his face into Harry's wet hair to muffle his own cry.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he finally whispers, and Harry giggles.  



End file.
